


when it rains

by RoamingSignals



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 08:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19169932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoamingSignals/pseuds/RoamingSignals
Summary: Magic is an all-powerful being and she has rules — even now, Taeyong knows very few of them. He knows that he runs this shop, and he knows that no one comes back a second time.Johnny comes back a second time, and Taeyong decides he knows very little.





	when it rains

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO I wrote this on [twt](https://twitter.com/fuIImarks/status/1136008146802094080) and have not edited it. It is here for consumption. Enjoy.
> 
> (Inspired in part by xxxHolic and also the Yestoday MV)

People do not find Taeyong twice.

Sure, Ten will visit every Sunday because he loves to be a bother, and Donghyuck will trail in as the wind blows purely because he can. Dejun will often come by to sell his wares and Yangyang will follow because he has nothing better to do.

But people — humans — they find Taeyong once and then they forget. It is the nature of his shop; she sells you whatever you need and you leave fulfilled. There is no purpose in remembering her afterwards.

Taeyong is merely her facilitator, the being that ties her to the ground, but even that tie is flimsy, and his store is not on the same corner as the days pass. Taeyong has Power, certainly, but Magic is a wily creature. She refuses to stay, and Taeyong flows easily behind.

It is the nature of things, Taeyong being forgotten.

Still, some customers are of particular note. He has seen plenty of celebrities trail in like ghosts. He sees the sick wander in to be healed without knowing what ails them. Women with sorry stories and children lost in the streets. He gives them bottled courage and good fortune, a guiding light, and sends them out again. They wave goodbye. They do not come back.

Johnny comes back, but only when it rains.

The first time he comes it, it pours, rain beating harsh against the shop’s glass windows, and he winds up on Taeyong’s doorstep drenched head to toe. “Hello,” he says. His voice is soothing. “Do you perhaps have an umbrella?”

Taeyong does, in fact, have an umbrella. He has many umbrellas, a room full of them if he opens the right door. “Sit,” he says, leading this large bumbling man towards the large armchair by the fire. “I’ll return.”

And he does, with a purple umbrella and a cup of hot coffee. “I prefer tea,” Taeyong tells him, handing him the mug. “But I suppose that’s not my call.”

“Thank you, it’s perfect.” The man smiles, his entire face alight even as he shivers, and Taeyong wills his clothes to dry all the faster. “I left my umbrella on the train.”

“All sorts of things get left on the train.” Taeyong would know — most of them end up here.

“How much do I owe you?”

Taeyong considers the umbrella and the coffee and the dry clothes and measures their worth. “A song,” he decides.

The man blinks. “A song?”

“You play the piano, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.” The man blinks, and then he smiles again. Taeyong asks the shop if he can take that as payment and she declines. A song is a better price. “Do you have one here?”

Taeyong is sure he has one in some dusty corner — it’s been a while since music was played here. Still, he leads the man around the corner and there she sits, ready. Waiting.

When the man starts to play, it’s clear that this was the right price. The tone is sweet and he plays masterfully. There’s welcome peace in it. Taeyong closes his eyes and plucks the melody from the air. It rings as he drops it into a bottle.

“Thank you,” Taeyong sighs. Someday soon, this will be what someone needs. He smiles gently. “You play well.”

It is time for the man to leave, but Taeyong senses he would like to stay. The magic has no reason for him to stay, but she gives Taeyong no reason to make him leave. Taeyong brews another pot of coffee. The man plays another song and Taeyong lets himself have it, a welcome gift.

“My name is Johnny,” the man says. The umbrella is in his hand, but the rain is but a memory now. Two songs is too heavy a price for an umbrella without rain, but the magic doesn’t mind and neither does Johnny.

“Have a good evening, Johnny.”

He waves goodbye and Taeyong counts his steps as he walks down the street — one, two, three — and knows by now he does not exist to this man.

It is always nice while it lasts.

Taeyong returns to his work.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

The second time, Taeyong has questions for the shop and she refuses to answer him, but he opens the door anyway. The bell rings. The rain is heavy. Johnny is there.

“Do you perhaps have an umbrella?” he asks, in that same soothing tone. His hair is shorter. Taeyong wonders how long it has been since the last time — the days pass differently here. But it is most certainly Johnny.

Taeyong still has many umbrellas.

“Do you lose things often?” Taeyong asks when he returns, umbrella in hand. He’s added a touch of himself to it, a charm to dissuade misplacement. The price will be steeper, but he is unsure what else he is supposed to do. Johnny has a need to be met, and Taeyong has met it not once but twice.

“Not very often,” Johnny says. “Perhaps I have bad luck with umbrellas.” His eyes sparkle. They are an odd shade of amber. Idly, Taeyong wonders what they’d sound like spun into a song. Beautiful, maybe.

The price is more, this time. A song will not do. Once again, the shop allows Taeyong to make the decision. “There is a book in your bag. Will you give it to me?”

“I haven’t finished it yet,” Johnny admits, taking the book out. The cover is crisp and colorful. There’s a single page dog-eared, just past the middle. The spine is four openings away from breaking. He places it in Taeyong’s hands.

Taeyong hums. “I know.”  It is the unknown ending that pays for Johnny’s new umbrella.

There are no transactions left to make — Johnny has been helped, Taeyong has received his payment, and there is still something off-balance between them despite the even scales.

“Thank you,” Johnny says as he leaves. His clothes do not need to be dried, but he has spent plenty of time by the fire anyway.

“I’m happy to help,” Taeyong replies, mystified. He is not used to this feeling. He is not sure what to label it. “Have a good evening.”

“Before I go.” Johnny chews on his lower lip. It’s a nervous tick, not an attempt at seduction, and Taeyong finds it more endearing than anything. “What is your name?”

It is not a question Taeyong has been asked often. Few people think of it. The people who might wonder about him know his name without asking. He blinks. “I...don’t have a price for that.”

Johnny grins. “Then you can give it freely.”

Yes, he supposes, he can. “Taeyong.”

There’s a strange satisfaction on Johnny’s face. “Taeyong.” He inclines his head. “Have a good evening, Taeyong.”

Taeyong opens the door for him and, just before his foot hits the last step, asks — “Won’t you give me your name?”

Johnny blinks at him. “I gave it to you last time.” He laughs. “Have you already forgotten?”

Oh, the shock of it all.

Johnny is gone in a moment, ignorant of the way Taeyong’s heart races, and the shop laughs at her steward mercilessly. She knows more than Taeyong, always, but no one is better at holding tongues than Magic, and Taeyong does not bother asking her what’s happened. He's not certain she will ever tell.

He flows behind her, confused, warmed to his bones, and wonders.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

Taeyong accepts the enigma that comes from serving something unknowable. In some ways, he relishes it. Every day there is something new and wonderful. Things are constantly changing and he is privy to them all, should he ask. And he enjoys working out of the limelight. His magic is not flashy — it’s subtle, a small comfort. Grand gestures are for grand people.

The world is made up of small moments and ordinary problems. Normal people with molehill mountains. Those are the people that need Taeyong the most.

Some people do not adhere to that philosophy. Ten, for example, is loud and flashy and bright in ways that humans can’t quite manage. He walks down the street and enjoys the stares. He is not quite real, so large that his edges are blurred, but people still look, and they love looking.

They can look all they want, but they will never truly See him.

It makes him rather insufferable.

“You need to get out more,” Ten says, eating the cake that Taeyong had made in anticipation of his coming. Taeyong regrets it now, because it just gives the witch a reason to stay longer. “When was the last time you went outside?”

It’s a silly question — without Taeyong, the shop would not be stable enough to have visitors. Without the shop, those people would not be helped. The shop has always been available, because Taeyong has always been available.

“It’s been a long time,” Taeyong admits.

Some people need small things for small problems. Some people need small things for big problems. He does important work. It drains him. Despite that, it continues to be worth it.

Still, there are exciting things going on. Taeyong tells Ten of Johnny, the strange man who needed an umbrella not once but twice, and found Taeyong both times.

Ten’s first question is — “Was he cute?”

“Yes,” Taeyong says, because it’s the truth. “He was very tall. He could step on you.”

“I love that in a man.” Ten laughs around a mouthful of cake. “If he comes back again you should get his number.” He frowns. “When was the last time you went out? Do you even know what a cell phone is?”

“I’m not that old.” Taeyong kicks Ten gently in the shin.

“Oof, I am.” Ten slumps in his seat. “I miss the 70s.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Taeyong says. “He won’t come back.”

Ten smiles, soft. “Why not?”

“This shop has rules.” People come, they wave goodbye, they don’t come back.

“Magic does have rules,” Ten agrees. He tilts his head. “But who are we to understand them all?”

The bell rings.

Taeyong looks out his kitchen window and sees that it’s raining.

Ten is gone — along with the rest of the cake — and Taeyong braces himself against his own heart.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

Oddly, this time Johnny arrives with an umbrella in hand. Taeyong supposes that means the charm worked, or that Johnny himself has taken better care of it, but it means that he has another need. Taeyong wonders if this problem will be so easily solved.

Although, he has returned twice — was it ever solved in the first place?

Taeyong has so many questions. Johnny seems oblivious, rifling through the bookshelf in the front room. The purple umbrella drips water onto the floorboards. Taeyong is too confused to mind.

More confused than ever when Johnny turns to him and smiles wide. “Taeyong.”

Taeyong can’t stop the way his heart beats — he is not human, but there is the memory of his humanity in it. It’s old and dusty, this feeling. He has not known it to miss it. Perhaps that is for the best; it’s a lovely feeling. “You remembered.”

He grins with his whole being. “Do you remember my name?” Cheeky.

“Johnny.” Taeyong inspects the man, looking for the unfathomable thing that makes him special enough to meet thrice. “Your name is Johnny.”

The magic laughs happily.

“You took my book,” Johnny tells Taeyong. “I’m here for another one.”

Taeyong has plenty of books. The bookshelf in the front room is but one of many that litter the shop, and that’s not counting Taeyong’s own collection. Taeyong allows Johnny to peruse as he goes to the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee.

An hour later, Johnny is still here. It is the longest conversation Taeyong has had with a customer in all his years of work, and he feels himself glowing with the ease of it. But it seems that Johnny does have somewhere to be. Taeyong can feel the clocking ticking like a heart beat. HE thinks he’ll miss this feeling when Johnny is gone.

The umbrella is dry by now, by the fire and by a twist of Taeyong’s hand, and Johnny picks up a book from the top shelf. Taeyong often forgets the books on the top shelf, but he remembers this one. It is bound by ribbon, nothing more, and littered with pen marks. A manuscript, hovering between finished and unfinished.

A man had traded it for a miracle. It’s the only copy, a story that would have been read by millions had it ever been published. A heavy price, willingly given. Johnny does not understand the weight, but perhaps he feels it. “I’ll try this one.”

“You have a good eye.” Taeyong takes it from him with gentle hands. “It’s a good book, with much potential.”

“How much?” Johnny inquires.

Taeyong finds the price of it escapes him.

The shop holds her breath.

“You’ll bring it back, won’t you?” Taeyong asks after a moment. He hands the book back to Johnny and allows himself this lovely feeling.

Johnny reads the cover page, almost reverent. His fingers trail over crinkled corners. “I will.”

Taeyong holds out his pinky. “Then it’s worth a promise.”

With a grin, Johnny links their pinkies together.

The shop sighs happily.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

It is only a matter of time before Johnny’s visits coincide with another customer. It should be shocking when it happens, as it has never happened before, but Johnny has also never happened before and yet here he is, continuing to happen.

Taeyong accepts it. Parts of his heart are grateful for it.  But it's those small parts that make up the whole, and every time Johnny walks through the door Taeyong feels like he could fly.

The shock of it all, the confusion, is worth that much and more. When the boy enters his shop, rain soaking through the hood of his sweatshirt, Johnny and Taeyong are both sitting on the couch chatting about nothing.

Taeyong had known the boy would be coming. “Company will be here soon,” he’d said, when the thought passed through the air.

“Do you need me to leave?” Johnny offers, hand warm on Taeyong’s knee.

Taeyong pauses. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

So Johnny does.

Mark’s problem is easily seen — his hands shake and so does his mind. “What is this place?” he asks, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. His feet on the floorboard. The air around him is buzzy with wayward thoughts.

“It’s a shop,” Taeyong offers, standing up from the couch. “I can help you, if you let me.”

What Mark needs is peace. It’s a problem that Taeyong knows how to solve.

In the third room on the left (usually, sometimes it prefers the last room on the right) there’s a collection of bottles lining wooden shelves. Some hold memories, some hold promises, some hold feelings. One in particular holds a song.  _JOHNNY’S SONG_ , specifically. The label is handwritten, scrawled out across new tape on a rainy night. How many days has it been? Taeyong hums the familiar tune.

“For peace,” Taeyong says, and sees Johnny’s eyes widen when he recognizes it. “One moment.”

There’s an old music box sitting on Taeyong’s mantle, waiting for its time. The shop opens the lid and the gears turn soundlessly. It’s a sad fate for something so beautiful, but everything that comes through Taeyong’s door can be fixed.

He opens the bottle. A song begins the play. Peace.

Taeyong shuts the box and places it in Mark’s waiting hands.

“How much?” the boy asks, digging through his pockets, as though perhaps Taeyong accepted money.

Taeyong thinks. “A secret.”

The boy does not question him. “Alright.”

Taeyong puts a finger to Mark’s tongue and pulls the price from his lips.

“That doesn’t seem like an even trade,” Johnny mentions later, watching Taeyong spin the secret into thread. “A music box will always play. A secret is only powerful as long as it’s kept.”

“This one he would always keep,” Taeyong explains, spinning his wheel. “A secret for peace — it’s a common price.” And perhaps, Mark could benefit from his secret being exposed. That lovely feeling, maybe it’s waiting somewhere mixed in with the relief.

“What if it doesn’t work?” Johnny questions. He’s always so curious, but never about the things that Taeyong thinks he should be curious about, like the fact that Taeyong is able to bottle up a song and turn it into a gift. “Will he come back?”

“It will work.” Taeyong knows that it will. He knows many things. “They never come back.” 

Johnny frowns. “I did.”

“Yes.” A soft smile with hidden weight. “You did. The first.” 

It’s a thought that lingers between them, settling into their bones and the floorboards and the magic.

Johnny's thoughts are loud. Pressing. Soft. “Is it sad?”

“No.” The truth. Taeyong is smiling as he smooths down the thread on his spool. “It means that I’ve done good work. There’s happiness in that.”

“You’re amazing,” Johnny tells him.

Taeyong believes in so many things. It’d been silly if Johnny wasn’t one of them.

He’s happy.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

“Why do you always come when it rains?” 

There are many questions and very few answers, and eventually Magic got tired of him asking and tells him — why don’t you ask the person you want to ask?

So Taeyong asks Johnny why he only comes when it rains.

“The rain reminds me of you,” Johnny answers. He frowns. “Sometimes I go days like there’s a name of the tip of my tongue and it won’t fall out of my mouth, and then it rains, and I remember.”

Odd. Everything about this is odd. There are so many odd things in Taeyong’s life that he’s stopped keeping track and tucks them into the folds, and he takes Johnny and tucks him there, too. 

“It shouldn’t remind you of me,” Taeyong tells him. “Nothing should remind you of me.”

Johnny laughs. “Tell that to the rain.”

Taeyong has told the rain many things, but much like Magic she doesn’t listen to him. So he thanks her, quietly, and prays for the next time she falls.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

Donghyuck is a brat. Donghyuck knows this, actively pursues this, and wears the title proudly.

Taeyong can count the amount of friends he has on one hand, and — save Johnny — they’re all insufferable.

Luckily, Donghyuck also happens to be the best potionsmaster that Taeyong has ever met, and Taeyong has lived a very long life. He would never ever tell Donghyuck as much, but he’s certain Donghyuck has assumed it to be so, considering it’s Donghyuck he calls when he needs something brewed.

At least Taeyong doesn’t have to worry about Donghyuck stealing his food the way Ten does. For an all-powerful witch, Ten lives off a lot of ramen noodles. Donghyuck can make his own meals.

Taeyong still feeds him, because Taeyong is weak.

Donghyuck shows up on Taeyong’s doorstep unannounced with a wicked grin on his face. “I’d like to borrow your kitchen.” It’s a useless request, as Taeyong knows for a fact the Donghyuck has his own kitchen, but he lets Donghyuck in anyway.

The cauldron Donghyuck hauls out of his bag is not large enough for most potionwork. It might make a single serving, depending on what he’s planning to brew — it’s still altogether too large for Donghyuck’s bag, but that’s a trick Doyoung often uses, and Taeyong wouldn’t be surprised if the boy stole the words from Doyoung’s mouth when he wasn’t looking.

Taeyong watches Donghyuck pull out his own ingredients. Taeyong has many things in this shop, but he rarely makes tangible magic like this, and Donghyuck has always been picky with his produce. There are three Tupperware containers,There are three Tupperware containers, one glowing, one green, one gurgling.

“What is that?” Taeyong asks, as Donghyuck neatly opens the containers and pours them into the cauldron.

“Parts one, two, and three,” Donghyuck replies, and Taeyong’s eyes widen. “Each one took a fortnight, and one needed to be brewed on a full moon while another needed a new cycle. Honestly, a mess.” He huffs, but he stirs his work lovingly.

“You barely have the patience to microwave a Hot Pocket.” Taeyong frowns. “What on earth are making?”

Donghyuck crushes lavender in his hands and sticks out his tongue. “No peeking.”

Taeyong won’t pretend he isn’t curious, but he does have work to do. He’s come across a charmed suitcase that he thinks might find a good home with a little work — seeing as it refuses to open unless you tell it a funny joke — so he sets down and minds his business. 

It’s possible Donghyuck doesn’t even know what he’s brewing. He’s a bit like Taeyong that way, born with an extra touch of Sight, and rarely questions the things he sees. Magic is more like faith for people like Taeyong and Donghyuck. It drives academics like Doyoung mad.

“Do you have any kimchi?” Donghyuck asks, many hours in.

Taeyong snorts. “What could you possibly need kimchi for?” It doesn’t belong in any potionwork Taeyong has seen before.

The answering grin is wicked. “Dinner.” Donghyuck stirs the pot. “All this work I’m doing for you.”

Taeyong pushes Donghyuck aside, pouting. “I never asked!”

Silly. Magic doesn’t ask. 

It’s the spring, and Taeyong counts down the minutes until the pitter patter of a promise hits his kitchen window. It’s a sunny day despite the rain.

“Are you expecting company?” Donghyuck asks, even if his smile says he knows the answer. Honestly, children these days, thinking they’re all-knowing.

The rain falls and the bell rings, and for the first time Taeyong ushers Johnny past the front room and into his kitchen.

He introduces Donghyuck, the bright boy still stirring his cauldron. “He’s making me dinner,” Donghyuck tells him, shameless. The potion smells like nostalgia. It paints the room hazy. “You’re welcome to stay.”

Johnny laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “I would like to stay, if I could.”

“You can stay,” Taeyong says. His fingers tighten on the straps of the suitcase. “You can stay if you want to.”

It’s strange, that Taeyong has seen so many beautiful, indescribable things, and yet Johnny — smiling, pleased, present — is the thing that renders him speechless. He drips raindrops onto the tile and looks at Taeyong and he stays.

Johnny is Taeyong’s own miracle.

The magic sings — now you’re getting it.

Donghyuck finishes his brewing an hour later, when the meal is almost prepared, perfectly timed, and he pulls a bottle from his pocket. Taeyong watches the boy ladle his creation, watches it swirl in the glass. It looks rather boring, the sum of its more extraordinary parts.

Taeyong watches Donghyuck hand the bottle to Johnny and holds his breath.

Johnny’s touch is gentle as he takes it. He is used to these exchanges; it is a shop after all. “How much?”

Donghyuck makes a show to calculating the price, but he smiles. “It’s free.”

Taeyong shakes his head. Really, children these days.

“That can’t be right.” Johnny turns the bottle in his hands. Taeyong watches the movement carefully, with trepidation. There is no label. “This place survives on transaction — nothing here is free.”

“I’m a meager witch,” Donghyuck tuts. An understatement. “I’m not a part of this place. It’s mine to give freely if I so choose.”

Taeyong’s heart squeezes, a warning. “Donghyuck—”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Donghyuck whines, cute, but there’s a bitter pill. “I know what I’m doing, usually.”

Taeyong remembers witchling Donghyuck tripping over his curses. It’s true he’s grown. The magic speaks to him now, when she chooses. “Truly?”

“No.” He laughs, eyes flashing gold. “But I know this time. That’s enough, right?”

It’s enough for Johnny. He slips the bottle into his pocket.

“Save it for a sunny day,” Donghyuck chirps. He waves his hand and the pots dance towards the sink. Something sticky is left on the counter and Taeyong wipes it up with a paper towel. “For now, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

 

 ✨✨✨

 

There is one truth that Taeyong has never truly accepted: some people can’t be helped.

There’s a difference between Magic and miracles, and Taeyong deals in both, but they only help the willing, and Taeyong isn’t powerful enough to bend the rules. 

Johnny’s eyebrows rise into his hairline when he sees Taeyong set a mini jukebox out on the fireplace mantel. “It doesn’t really suit the decor,” he says.

The decor is a little bit of everything, and the jukebox suits it just fine, but it’s not one of the more common items Taeyong sells.

“Someone is coming for it today,” Taeyong answers.

And someone does. The bell rings slightly after lunch, once the rain has stopped, and Johnny’s piano playing tinkles off into a memory while Taeyong returns to the main room.

The boy’s name is Jaemin. His hair is pink and his cheeks are pink and his eyes are red, and Taeyong gives him a cup of coffee and the possibility of a good day.

“They don’t love me,” Jaemin says, curled up on Taeyong’s couch.

Taeyong aches. “You can’t make them.”

“Could you?” he whispers. Small on Taeyong’s couch. “Could you make them?”

Pause. “Would you want me to?”

They both know the answer. Jaemin takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to feel this way.”

Taeyong could not make them love him, and he can not make Jaemin stop loving them, but he gives Jaemin the jukebox anyway. “Feed it a wish,” he says. “It will sing you to sleep.”

In the end, Taeyong doesn’t take a price. Jaemin waves goodbye, and he leaves, and Taeyong watches him go, burdened.

“Why didn’t he pay?” Johnny asks.

Taeyong turns back to the shop. “Because it won’t work.”

Jaemin does not want to feel this way, but he does not want to stop loving them, so he will love them.

Maybe one day, the boy will change his mind, and the jukebox will play songs fed by his unwanted feelings, and he will know that kind of peace. Until then, he will feed it a wish and get a lullaby, and that will have to be enough.

Taeyong will not take payment, but he will give a helping hand.

“Will he come back?” Johnny asks. “If it doesn’t work. Will he come back?”

Taeyong laughs, a little thickly. “You always ask that.” Always. “They never come back, Johnny. They never remember.” He hates that reminder.

“I just…” Johnny looks at Taeyong, uncharacteristically heavy. “I worry about you.”

“I’m doing good work,” Taeyong tells him fondly, letting his fingers run through Johnny’s hair. “That’s enough for me, even if they don’t remember after.”

Johnny hums. “But how do they thank you?”

“They don’t thank me.” Taeyong blinks, bewildered. “I don’t need to be thanked.”

“You deserve that much. So much.” Johnny holds Taeyong’s hand. “I’ll thank you every day. I’ll give you every kind word you deserve but have never gotten.”

Something sinks in Taeyong’s stomach, something dangerous and bone deep, and maybe it’s love. “Johnny,” Taeyong whispers. His thumb smooths over Johnny’s cheekbone. “We don’t have every day.”

“We could.” Johnny holds out his pinky.

Taeyong isn’t sure what the promise is payment for. His heart, maybe.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

Spring gives way to the other seasons, as she should, and takes with her whatever time Taeyong and Johnny had. The rain stops falling, and Taeyong knew it would, but he desperately wants there to be someone out there who could grant his own wishes.

But that is not the nature of things.

So Taeyong makes his wishes quietly and soldiers on, watching the days spin by through the summer drought. He learns to play the piano. He gives a little girl a story to read to her mother. He helps hearts heal.

The next time it rains, Johnny does not come. Taeyong knows that Johnny will not come, but he still puts on a pot of coffee and dusts his bookshelf and starts the fire. He cooks dinner for two. He sighs as he sets aside a second serving for tomorrow.

Magic’s grip has loosened, for whatever reason, and Taeyong has to accept that just because there are exceptions does not mean there are not still rules.

It’s unfortunate, then, that his heart has made its wish, and is left unfulfilled.

Johnny’s second visit had shocked him, oh, how it had shaken him, and Taeyong wouldn’t call this feeling shock as much as a fear realized, but he’s still shaking. Perhaps he should stop wishing and start praying, but the shop is silent, and she is his only god.

 He prays that she hears him. She always has, if he’s patient.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

The world continues to turn; it is her greatest gift.

It allows Taeyong to bury himself in the lives of others. He has had centuries of practice and he’s thankful for every hour. He barely even stares wistful at the doorway, barely even wishes for a rain cloud. 

If it’s hard on his heart, that’s his own business, but Taeyong has survived worse and healed worse and refuses to be heart-broken over something that was more of a gift than an expectation.

Taeyong is happy that their time together existed in whatever form for however long.

His friends are less than convinced and more than meddlesome.

“Maybe I should call Yuta,” Ten muses on a Sunday visit, “since it seems I’m dealing with a ghost.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes. “I don’t need an exorcism.”

Ten disagrees.

He’d blown in on the summer wind and found himself at Taeyong’s doorstep, and it barely takes him five minutes before he’s caught on something is off-kilter. It’s irritating, befriending those strange more-than-humans, because they’re impossible to deceive.

“Hold on,” Ten chirps, digging in his pocket. “I’ll get Yuta on FaceTime for a consultation.”

Taeyong sighs, tired. “His rate is a memory these days.” High stakes.

“I get a friend discount.” Ten laughs. “A kiss or three.”

“Doesn’t sound very friendly.”

“Depends on your friends.”

Ten always makes things a little brighter; whether it’s the magic’s blessing or something even more intrinsic, he’s charming. His fingers flow over the piano Johnny used to play and he knows the whole story, and he looks at Taeyong sadly. “You were so close.”

Taeyong swallows, his feet on shaking ground. “Close to what?”

“Close to your miracle.”

The sun is shining. It used to be cause for happiness, but Taeyong can’t stop himself longing for the rain. He holds his head in his hands. “It was a miracle, while it lasted,” he admits.

“It could have been more.” Ten pauses. “Can be more.”

Taeyong thinks for a long moment. “He’s a human.” The careful truth.

Ten hums, a familiar tune — played in the rain and bottled and traded for a secret. “So were you, once.”

There are people like Taeyong, even people like Ten, who live their lives as humans, listening to Magic when she speaks like a distant relative, waving at her on the subway and carrying on, but Taeyong doesn’t think that life has ever been for him. He cares too much.

“I am what I am, and will always be.” Taeyong runs his fingers over the dreamcatcher hanging by the kitchen window. A young woman will come for it a week from now, and he will be happy to give it to her. “A shopkeeper.”

Ten rolls his eyes. “Even the hardest worker need a weekend off every once in a while.” His hand covers Taeyong’s. “And you can’t fool me.”

Taeyong grins. “Because you are the fool?”

He taps Taeyong on the nose playfully. “Because we are two sides of the same coin.” His smile is wry. “You can burn yourself up forever, but you’ll always be lonely.”

“Loneliness?” Taeyong scoffs. “That’s so small, in the grand scheme of things.”

Ten’s eyes are so old. Taeyong can see the ages in them. “You can’t always think in the grand scheme. You’re a small person. You deal with small problems. You’re allowed to feel small things.”

Taeyong feels small.

“You’re no fun to play with when you’re moping.” Ten stretches, cat-like, back creaking, atmosphere shattered. “You’ll have another chance. Do make sure you take it.”

 

 ✨✨✨

 

The flowers on Taeyong’s porch step are dying. The sun is too shy and the weather is bitter. He nurses them as well as he can, but there is no denying that autumn has arrived and arrived viciously.

Ten has been spending more time in Taeyong’s shop, and even bothers Doyoung into stopping by, and it’s sweet that his friends are worried. Taeyong is grateful for the support through what probably seems — from the outside — to be a trying time.

But Taeyong is doing good work, hard work, and has accepted the return to an old routine.

He has not forgotten, but perhaps that was never what was meant to happen.

Johnny sticks in his thumb like a thorn, irritating, a dull pain until it’s sharp and brutal. Flaring. With all the magic in the world Taeyong can’t heal himself.

It’s the same as poor Jaemin — he does not want to stop loving, so he will love, and his jukebox was a person and that person is gone. He can’t spend his wishes on lullabies, and his own hands don’t play the keys the same way. But they do play. His hands continue to play.

It’s cruel, in a way, because the piano reminds him of something precious, and it’s his own hands pouring salt in open wounds. Still, the peace it brings him, however temporary.

The shop speaks to him on a cold afternoon, and she’s taken a page from Ten’s book; she will not let him waste.

Someone is coming, she says, prepare for them.

Taeyong would have done so on his own. The magic is mothering him now, as though his friends are not enough. He laughs at her.

Oddly enough, he does not need to prepare. There is no itch under his skin, that vibrant magic, so he makes sure the porch light is on and reads a new book like an old friend.

Jisung knocks on the door, pushing into the shop so gently the bell barely rings, and Taeyong smiles at him. The answering smile is tentative, shy, so young. Taeyong barely remembers being so close to the beginning of his life. The world is so much more frightening then.

He holds a bird in his hands and he shakes.

“It isn’t moving,” Jisung whispers.

“No, she isn’t.” Taeyong shuts his book and stands up. “To the kitchen with us.”

The bird will be fine. She’s strong, but broken, and Taeyong hums her weakened parts back together. He hands Jisung a cookie and hums him back together, too.

A familiar tune.

“I know that song,” Jisung says quietly, from his spot atop Taeyong’s kitchen counter. For someone so lanky, he looks rather small. In the future he will learn to take up space, but not today.

Taeyong smiles at the bird as she rests happily on his arm. “Do you?” Absent. He doesn’t truly remember what he sang.

“My brother plays the piano — it’s his song.”

There’s no way, Taeyong thinks, except there are many ways and Taeyong knows them all. “Your brother?”

“His name is Johnny.”

Taeyong wonders if this is the miracle or if it’s the chance, but he holds his breath anyway. “He played it for me, once.”

“And you remembered?” Jisung laughs. “I barely listen to him — he’s old and boring.” The boy sighs. “But it’s a pretty song.”

“Yes.” A special song. “Your brother...is really talented.” Even if he is old and boring. Taeyong wants to laugh, bright.

“He’s a mess.” Jisung rolls his eyes, the vision of a sibling. “And he’s a ghost, these days.”

Ah. Taeyong runs a finger across the birds head and she preens, beautiful. “Does he need an exorcism?”

“Do you do those?” Jisung asks, mouth hanging open. “That’s awesome.”

“No, but I know someone who does.” He won’t kiss Yuta, though, even for a discount.

“I don’t think he needs that,” the boy admits, begrudgingly, if only because the idea of an exorcist sounds fun. “He just needs to get outside more. Maybe he needs a dog.”

Taeyong inspects Jisung for a moment, considering, and wonders.

Magic has many rules, and Taeyong does not pretend to know them all. He knows that he runs this shop, and he knows that no one comes back a second time. People find Taeyong and he helps them and they leave. The world keeps turning.

But Johnny came back. Johnny found Taeyong time and time again, and did not need Taeyong’s help.

Did he ever really need Taeyong’s help? Or did he appear on Taeyong’s doorstep for another reason altogether?

Perhaps it was never Johnny that needed anything.

“You should get him a dog,” Taeyong tells Jisung, handing him another cookie.

“I tried,” Jisung replies morosely, but he accepts the cookie anyway.

Taeyong is loathe to charge a price, but there is always a price, even in the smallest of things. Even if it’s just time. “I’ll make you a deal.” He counts up the cookies and the song and the chirping of the bird. “Give me what’s in your pocket, and a moment, and I’ll give you something for you brother.”

Jisung pulls out a bus ticket — a missed opportunity, but one fate will make up for — and sets it on Taeyong’s counter. “I can walk,” he says. “I’ll take another cookie.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Taeyong pushes the box towards the boy and pulls out a pen and paper.

Taeyong does not think hard. He does not write what he thinks. He does not wish. He puts pen to paper and breathes. There is nothing left for it. Closure is a human thing to desire, near-sighted, considering that nothing is ever truly closed.

He writes a goodbye, and a thank you, and leaves it open.

_I will always pray for the rain, but I wish you sunny days._

 

Jisung waves goodbye. Taeyong has spent all his longing on other things, a large allotment he’s used up without realizing, but the magic hums around him, and he watches Jisung leave with a heavy heart.

“Let him remember,” Taeyong asks aloud, standing on his own doorstep. “Please, let him remember.”

Taeyong will continue to spin whether Jisung remembers the letter in his pocket, but perhaps it’s time he stopped spinning — even if only for a little while.

 

 ✨✨✨

 

The more Taeyong thinks about it, about his life, he sees the familiar trend of waiting. He waits for customers, he waits for answers, he waits for things to happen.

Over the years he’s grown an incredible amount of patience. There’s little else to do, when he has all the time in the world. Time creeps by and takes Taeyong with it, and there’s no rush for anything. 

Still, his patience is tried.

_Please remember._

Taeyong has taken to wandering through his spare rooms. It’s a useless pass time — he finds what he needs when he needs it. Magic doesn’t need something as basic as an inventory. Still, he forgets what she hides in her corners. There are treasures here.

No has come for this suitcase, covered in stickers and charms. Something about it seems so lonely. The irony of it, stuck in a dusty room, waiting.

There are no customers to come by today. There are days when no one visits, however rare — someone always needs something — but Taeyong makes good use of it. His feet are bare. The shop smells like cinnamon bread. There’s shitty reality television playing in the main room. Their drama is an old and welcome kind of company.

The bell rings.

Taeyong is in the middle of reorganizing his bookshelf. There are novels and textbooks scattered all over the floor. He’s wearing a threadbare sweater. He is not expecting anyway.

He is too old to be surprised, but he looks at the door and the shock — it’s ageless.

“Hello,” Taeyong says, standing up.

Johnny pauses in the doorway. Breath held, a heart beat or two. “Hello.”

He is beautiful. It’s strange, like Taeyong’s memory blurred out his edges in his longing, but this Johnny is vibrant and beautiful and present. Taeyong wants to hold him so badly. This boy that Taeyong thought he would never see twice, and then feared he would never see again.

“Am I dreaming?” Taeyong asks.

No, the shop answers.

Johnny’s hands grip his useless umbrella, the one Taeyong gave him that first time, before either of them realized this was something special. “I…” His eyes fall over Taeyong, taking in all of him.

Taeyong looks out the front window. “An odd day to carry an umbrella.” The sun shines down on the street.

“You gave it to me,” Johnny says slowly.

“I did.”

“And...the books. And the coffee.”

“I gave you a lot of things,” Taeyong says, small.

Johnny breathes like he’s run a marathon. “And all of it...I forgot?”

Taeyong swallows the lump in his throat. “I suppose you did.” The shop has barely changed since Johnny’s last visit, and she greets him like an old friend. His hair is shorter. “You were meant to. It isn’t your fault.”

“I was meant to?” Johnny blinks at him. “Why?”

“Johnny,” Taeyong says, smiling so softly. “Everyone is meant to.”

“I’m not.” Johnny steps further into the shop, dropping his umbrella to the floor. “I’m not meant to forget you. Don’t tell me that.”

Magic has many rules, but there are always exceptions.

This shop has many peculiarities, but Johnny does not look away from Taeyong in his ratty sweater and his bare feet and his obvious, horrible longing. His fingers brush across Taeyong’s cheekbone. Taeyong is full of fireflies.

“Have you waited long?” Johnny asks.

“A year or so,” Taeyong says, eyes closed. Reveling. “It’s hard to say.”

Taeyong to worked so many miracles, but this one is the biggest, the most unbelievable, because it’s his.

There is a glass bottle in Johnny’s pocket — save it for a sunny day, Donghyuck had told him — and a letter crushed in Johnny’s hand, and the sun is shining, and Johnny remembers. Johnny remembered because the magic wanted Taeyong to be remembered.

There is a price in everything. Taeyong spends his days in this shop making deals and spreading magic, but there is a price in that, too.

Magic is not cruel. She is too large to be cruel, and there are prices but there are always gifts, freely given. Take what is yours, she whispers in his ear, the thank you you’ve always deserved.

There are people like Taeyong that live their lives keeping magic at an arm’s length, and that life has never been for him. She is too close, too dear to him for him to leave behind, and she knows as much. She loves him.

But Johnny holds Taeyong’s face in his hands, and Taeyong thinks that there is more magic in the world than just within the walls of this place.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” Johnny whispers.

Taeyong has not cried in so many years. Johnny wipes the tears away with his thumb, and Taeyong holds on to him. “I’d wait forever.”

Johnny kisses him there, with horrible television playing in the background and the magic laughing all around them, and Taeyong cannot imagine the debt he’s owed to be given so much.

Taeyong is an anchor, power heavy enough to lock this shop into existence, and he is a shopkeeper, selling wares. But in the grand scheme of things, he is small, and whether this shop is here or not the world will keep turning.

The shop packs him a suitcase, covered in stickers and charms, and tells him to take his time — as always, she will be here, when he decides to return.

Johnny is a human, but the world is not black and white, and he has always been an exception. The magic loves Taeyong, so she loves Johnny.

Taeyong deserves a million years of happiness, she decides, decided long ago. Martyrdom is a lonely lot by nature, and she asks so much of her children. It is not fair. The world is not fair. Magic does not even scales. Magic has rules.

But who is Taeyong to pretend he knows them all?

The bell rings. Taeyong steps out onto the pavement, feels the sun on his skin, glows. Johnny’s hand is warm in his.

They wave goodbye.

 

 


End file.
